


Time in a Bottle

by Miryel, MiryelENG (Miryel)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Battle, Blood and Violence, Depressed Peter, Difficult Decisions, F/M, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, PSD, Passive-aggression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Starker, Suicide Attempt, Time In a Bottle, Violence, War, Weapons, Young Starker, cherry made me write this, deaf and dumb tony, tony x peter - Freeform, young tony x peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miryel/pseuds/Miryel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miryel/pseuds/MiryelENG
Summary: The return.The homecoming from the war is never authentic. There is always a piece of soul that remains in battle and never returns it. Peter fights with war wounds that have never completely healed, Tony lives his life working while waiting for a certain future.Their paths cross by chance, on a warm May day, when the world finally turns in the right direction.[ Young Tony x Peter - Soldier!AU - Angst ]
Relationships: Happy Hogan/May Parker (Spider-Man), Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Kudos: 10





	1. No Return

**_[english isn't my primary languege, so if you have some advice, tell me ♥ I want to improve myself and your help is essential ♥]_ **

**_Chapter I. No Return._ **

_Noise_ .

Life is a noise. Life is a rumble of bombs and bullets that split the eardrums. And the heart. The smoke of explosions and sand is the only image that has populated his sleep since he returned. But he came back in the end; unlike others - unlike many. War has chosen him and he has chosen war, but sometimes he wonders what ever prompted him, on that dry day two years ago, to enlist and fight for a homeland that gives him nothing in return. Nothing at all. Against people who are people; against different ideals, but which he understood to have to leave limited to cultures that do not belong to him.

Politicians play on the razor's edge, stick medals for valor in his chest, and don't pull loose asses off their chairs, while _they_ throw themselves into a pit of death and never fully emerge from it. They are always partly there, amid the harsh sounds of gunfire, the screeching of advancing tanks and the painful screams of other human beings. Human like them, but who don't deserve the same life, the same future, the same hope. And he? What hope has he channeled within himself since he returned home?

Everything around him - even that straight road that never ends on the horizon, surrounded by dry, dead earth, as it was _there_ , in battle, around a camp that they called his new home, but that he hasn't never felt like it. He only perceived it, several times, especially at night, as a coffin in which to lie down, with the fear of never abandoning it again.

He sighs, tightens his fingers around the steering wheel; the white knuckles as when he took up a rifle and pointed it at the enemy; the same enemy who, trembling, welcomed him with a firearm ready to fire, unable to reserve the concern to let him live. Because in war you either kill or get killed. But in the end you die the same, every day a little more, even when you come home and you can't see things as they used to be. You see them distorted, different, strange ... inhuman. It all seems like a pantomime of a happy life, which is carried on as if it were lived outside the body; in a perennial expectation of tomorrow, which one always hopes will be better, but never is.

He takes his foot off the accelerator lightly, when he realizes he is running too much, as if the speed has captured his whims and decided to destroy them by breaking the sound barrier, unknowingly.

He does things he doesn't even realize he is doing. As when at night he sits on the window sill of his bedroom and looks out, waiting for the enemy, who will not come. As when he hears a plane pass in the sky and plugs his ears waiting for yet another bombing. Like when he finds himself in the middle of the living room, late at night, without knowing how he got there, holding a kitchen knife in his hands.

He's afraid. Fear of himself and of what he has become and, in his most intimate piece of soul, he knows that he needs to be helped - saved. Like many of his war companions, who ended up in therapy for not being able to detach themselves from the past. It doesn't want to end like this. He doesn't want to be afraid of everything. He doesn't want to stop trusting people - just him, who has always trusted everyone. He doesn't want to end up like many, hanging by a rope, unable to sustain life for what it is.

And that's why that journey is so important. Because Peter Parker can't take it anymore, fighting wars both outside and inside his body, and then he calls himself a coward and gives up that life. He wants to retire, start living again, maybe doing what he studied for and cancel forever that senseless choice to go and fight the next one, only because Uncle Ben's death has forced him to feel useful for something. But war is not useful, a uniform is not a dress and, more important, to kill non-nobility. It hurts, destroys, shrinks the heart. Forever.

He forces himself not to be overwhelmed by those thoughts again but, to let that intent come true, his car takes care of it, when he starts sobbing and trudging along that perfectly paved roadway, divided in two by a discontinuous white tongue made of paint a little faded from the sun. He tries to speed it up so it doesn't go out, but the _damned_ doesn't want to listen. Like a capricious woman, she does everything the opposite of what she is told and, five seconds later, shuts down. He falls into battle like a soldier, under the scorching sun of that May day, on a deserted street where only giant trucks pass, from time to time and some strangers who, like him, need to go to town.

"Fuck," he swears, clapping his palms on the wheel, irritated. A cloud of black smoke rises out of the glass and yes, it comes from the hood. Definitely a bad sign. He never understood anything about mechanics. He only ever watched his comrades juggle the maintenance of their war jeeps, but he never learned anything. It is a field that does not compete with it; he is more versed in scientific and mathematical subjects than in those practical as a mechanical engineer. "My famous fortune."

He leans back to the seat and, dejected, ruffles his hair. They have grown a little on the top, while the sides are still very short, victims of the electric razor that forced him to shave almost to zero, when he left for the war. He looks around and, with an annoyed clicking sound with his tongue, takes his phone out of his pocket, typing with shaking hands, on Google search, the nearest garage. His usual luck smiles at him for once. There is also a mechanic in that petrol pump that you see nearby, and apparently it is also open. At the very least, it will be a den of criminals, but that's a problem he'll look after later.

He tries to start the car, without success, but with a few hiccups he manages to take it there, then leaving the gear in neutral when he finally has the possibility to take advantage of a bit of road inclination and, entering the clearing, he stops by pulling the handbrake with a dry gesture, in front of a small prefabricated building wet from the sun.

When he gets out of the car he shades his eyes with the help of one hand and, hot, he undoes the first button of his military shirt. Because, despite everything, he doesn't mind wearing it. He gives him, as Aunt May always reminds him.

A tall man in a blue overalls spotted with grease here and there approaches, wiping his hands with a cloth even dirtier than his clothing. A mocking smile to illuminate a face marked by time.

"Trouble, soldier?" He asks, and Peter suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Every time the same, same irreverence ...

“Yes, my car left me on the street. He decided to explode with no real reason, apparently. Can you take a look at it? "

"Did any lights come on on the way?" Asks the man, then without asking permission he sits on the seat and turns on the ignition of the car. Peter watches him curiously, then rubs his chin thoughtfully.

"No. That is ... in reality I was lost in thought and I did not notice. "

"Let's see," says that and, when he tries to restart the engine, a metallic noise is heard, then a breather and finally nothing. _Lady Cocca_ \- the name that Aunt May gave to the car, is definitely dead.

"Ouch. I think a big mess happened. I think you broke the wall, ”the man says, and Peter has no idea what the hell he's mumbling about.

“The… the belt, okay. Is it serious damage? "

"Only if you haven't messed up the engine, soldier," the mechanic laughs again, then gets up wearily from his seat. “I'm calling my son. He is the diagnostic expert. It will scan the ECU through the computer and you will see what to do and how serious it is. " He doesn't even wait for an answer and Peter follows him with his eyes; sees him walk into the garage, where a little boy who is about his age is bent over a car and using a key on something he can't identify. The man pats him on the shoulder, and he jumps, turns and then they both direct their eyes on him. The boy nods and, immediately after, disappears and then returns with a kind of tablet in his hand with a long wire attached to the end. Like a power cord, but it's not,

"My dad says you broke it all," the one says, laughing. He has the pants of a gray overalls and a red shirt on him also mottled with grease and with holes in some places. A black mold on the cheek and a pair of goggles on the head. Work shoes that make your feet look bigger than normal. Peter realizes that he just had the X-ray taken.

"Yup. I mean, no! No! I didn't break anything, or at least I hope! He says you can understand it with that ... that _thing_ ! »He exclaims, and the one shrugs.

"Let's see what we can do." The boy also sits on the seat and, fiddling under the steering wheel, attaches the plug somewhere and, turning on the device, begins to make it work, not before turning on the instrument panel with a flick of the key. At least, Peter thinks, the battery is still safe.

"Can that trinket see the flaws in the car?" He asks, and the other boy seems too focused to listen. It is folded over the tablet and, at lightning speed, switches from one screen to another. Completely engrossed in his work that he hasn't even heard it, so Peter coughs a couple of times to get his attention, without succeeding. It almost seems as if the young man is doing it on purpose, acting as if he doesn't exist.

Never mind, it happens often; people sometimes have a bad opinion of soldiers and he, in the end, has nothing to justify. He has his faults and he is aware of them. Can't please everyone.

So he waits, with one arm resting on the open door of the car and the scorching sun that is frying his brain.

"God, how hot", he tries to say, in the umpteenth attempt to be listened to, always without success; then the other raises his head and, with an indecipherable smile, hits him on the arm to get his attention. A gesture that leaves Peter annihilated for a moment.

Squares him again.

«Nothing serious, there are no errors apart from those of the completely split timing belt. Another couple of kilometers and you would have said goodbye to the engine. "

"Good heavens, are you telling me so? Is it a long job? I don't even live in these parts! », He complains and, making a turn on himself, turns towards the roadway, knowing full well that neither a bus nor a taxi will pass by that will bring him back. It is fate that he should not abandon the army.

He feels another pat on the shoulder that draws his attention again, he turns around again and would like to ask him why he needs to touch him all the time, risking a myocardial infarction.

The boy, however, seems totally at ease, points to the workshop with a thumb pointing behind his shoulders. “Nothing irreparable, but it will take a few hours. We need to take apart a few parts, like the starter motor and the alternator. Two not indifferent problems, but by evening you will have it back. As long as you don't have to go back to the field », he chuckles and this time he's the one who looks him up and down, with a certain sufficiency that Peter doesn't like. He stiffens, but does not accept the provocation. He just nods, as he follows the boy into the workshop, when he signals him to enter.

"It didn't take him," he says and he doesn't even seem to hear it. The foreman approaches again and, after talking to his son, turns to him.

“Don't worry, soldier. Luckily for you today we are quite free and we will get down with your little one right away. If you like there is a bar where you can shelter from the heat while you wait. We'll let you know when it's ready,” he says, friendlier this time, and Peter wonders if that kindness isn't just due to the fact that he's going to have to spend a lot of money. He nods again and, before turning around and following the man's advice, sees again the boy who gave him the diagnosis talking to a woman. She makes gestures and he replies as well, with a certain ease. She must be his mother and, apparently, she uses sign language to communicate and he responds with naturalness, master of the technique.

"Oh," he lets slip.

The mechanic looks at him, then follows the path of his eyes and smiles.

"Yes, I know you wouldn't have said that, as he talks as if he wasn't."

_What?_

From what he saw, it seemed to him that the woman is deaf and dumb but, from the sentence said by the man, he is no longer so sure. He is not sure he understands. The boy from before approaches again, when his conversation ends and, with a confused smile, looks at him.

"So ..." he begins.

«Yes, he is deaf and dumb», confirms the man and, when the son seems to have understood what they are talking about, he turns to his father using the signs and the one, immediately afterwards, bursts out laughing and walks away.

Peter remains alone with the young man, who continues to give him that air of sufficiency and superiority that bothers him a little and amuses him a little. So raise your hands to chest height and start moving them.

" _My name is Peter, and it's not nice to call me an idiot thinking I can't understand_ you," he tells him, in sign language. The other raises his eyebrows and winces, displaced. Then he leans his head back and bursts out laughing.

He also raises his hands and moves them as if he were conducting an orchestra.

“ _I'm Tony. I didn't think you understood sign language. Anyway, I still think you're an idiot_ », he says, then folds his hands. The speech is over, but the eyes remain where they are.

Peter returns that smile to him, he understands the reason for that constant need to attract his attention with physical contact. He does not feel, he needs someone to do this with him and then he does the same with others. Perhaps out of habit. Maybe because he doesn't even notice.

"Where did you learn?" Tony asks him, this time out loud, and as much as Peter tries to find different shades in his voice, he finds nothing that doesn't make him sound anything but deaf.

"In the army. They don't just teach us how to shoot, that's it, ”he says, and awkwardly pushes a too short lock behind his ears.

Tony scrutinizes him again and seems satisfied with that answer, as he nods and gives him a fleeting wink, before turning around and going back to work.

Peter watches him for a while, stunned, realizing that in the end, after all, no one is ever really what they seem. Not even Tony.

Neither did he.

**To Be Continued...**


	2. The war inside

**Chapter II. The War inside.**

Peter and the war - he carries it inside.

He still smells it - like gasoline, smoke, and burnt meat. He still hears the muffled screams of his comrades - and enemies and those, if possible, are worse than any other noise.

He still sees the explosions, and not just of buildings and land, but of people as well. He sees the shreds of organs and flesh splashing away, and blood stains his face like red rain. He sees tired eyes and burning eyes, in front of him, at night. They float above his head as he stares at the ceiling unable to sleep.

He tries to forget, but if the body is at home, between the clean sheets of a cozy bed, the head is still in Afghanistan, between the rubble of the cities and those of his broken soul. The few times he manages to indulge in a handful of hours of sleep are populated by terrible nightmares, made of guns aimed at his temple, whose trigger is pulled by himself, but he never dies.

It feels like a broken toy, like a used and thrown away mannequin; he feels helpless, useless, corroded inside and bad. Bad with his neighbor, a danger to others and to himself. A bad human being.

He chose war to escape from pain and found only more pain. Something that never ends, that always returns to annihilate it, crush it, choke it. Breathless. How it feels when a boulder gets stuck in his chest and doesn't allow him to breathe anymore, as if he had unlearned how to do it.

Panic attacks; when you least expect them. In the car, in the shower, while eating. Even while the mind, at times, manages not to think about war.

He's got mood swings - he's kind and easygoing most of the time, but he also gets nervous about bullshit. An overly noisy TV show, a dog barking all the time, a strong smell, an untied shoe. He has the urge to punch the wall every time he can't keep that evil inside. And he is afraid of not knowing how to control it, that one day he will end up hurting someone. That's why he chose to take a house by himself, leaving Aunt May in his, safe, because he can't protect her. Not anymore. She is sorry, but she has understood and, in the end, she only goes to him to bring him lunch and dinner or for the clean clothes and collect the dirty ones. It takes away the most boring jobs and Peter would like to tell her there is no need, but he knows she wants to feel useful. He wants to help him as he can. And he wants to help her as he can. He doesn't want him to feel useless, but he doesn't want her to fight that battle for him. It is wasted time and there is no redemption; sooner or later they will have to deal with what he has become, but it is something he does not want to face yet.

Only that Peter wanted to face those guilt feelings not here, in his house, but somewhere else. He would have liked to do it in the camp, when his companions were also in the same situation and at night they woke him up screaming with all the voice they had in their bodies, against an enemy who was not there. Except that talking about it at the time was weak, debauched, _hysterical queers_ . "You're a soldier, you're here because you want it," and Peter had often wondered if he really wanted it. If everyone wanted it.

Nobody wants. Never. It just looks simple from the outside. Except that there is not only the clash with the enemy, but also the internal one with the comrades and the superiors and those _things_ \- what he has suffered, he cannot forget them. And he feels responsible for something he doesn't even know what it is.

"Have you tried taking the pills I prescribed?" His therapist, always straight to the point; always so detached and behind that wall of incomprehension that hovers around him. Something Peter doesn't need.

"Do you say those for sleeping?" Yup."

"And...?"

"And they have no effect," he replies bitterly, biting his lip. Look out the window, which does not light up that cold room, decorated with dark furniture and dull impressionist paintings. There is only a patch of green in one corner: it is a plant, but it seems fake. There is nothing alive in there. Neither the spirit, nor he, nor the therapist. The latter raises his eyeglasses on his head; he sighs and takes the root of his nose between two fingers.

“Parker, you have to get them. Skipping the doses will only make things worse. "

«I don't miss any dose! I'm taking them and they have no effect. What should I do, pretend that it is? »He says abruptly, and is always amazed when all that repressed anger comes out of him like pus gushing from a necrosing wound. "You don't believe me." It is not a question, but an observation. He sure is, and he wonders why he keeps going, if every time he gets out of there he feels even worse.

"I believe you. I have no reason not to. "

“Then why are you treating me like I'm a liar? As if I were a child. "

Silence falls. It is he who evokes it. He knows he didn't win that verbal battle, but in a way he feels powerful for raising his voice. The man looks at him, with no emotion on his face. He is used to it. He is not the first or even the last soldier with a PTSD that he happened to have to treat. Maybe that's what makes him so damn far from his world. _Habit._

“I don't treat you in any way. I worry about your health, like your aunt, for example. "

"Keep my aunt away from this!"

The man raises his hands, as if Peter might suddenly stand up and punch him. He cannot but admit to himself that the impulse to do so, burning inside his heart, is there. He's afraid. “Parker… calm down. You are not at war and I am not the enemy. I'm trying to help you but if you don't let me, we'll never take a step forward. I'm just asking for your cooperation. I'm unable to get you out of there if you don't cooperate. "

It's true. That's right, _fuck it_ , that's right! He's not at war and he doesn't carry a selective-fire automatic rifle. No free-fall bombs are about to be dropped on the mountain that forms the backdrop to his camp. The rubble is not about to crush his companions, of whom I will find only shreds and blood; he is in New York, near his home, where the only annoying noise is that of the horns and the planes that pass over his head. Noisy as death.

He runs a hand through his hair and rests his elbows on his knees. They tremble. They beat to the rhythm of the firing of a machine gun. Like eternal tinnitus stuck in the ear. It hurts terribly.

He sighs. "Y-yes. Yes, I'm very sorry. I'm really sorry, I don't know what acc- "

“You have nothing to apologize for. Losing yourself elsewhere is normal. As I told you, the problem is not who you are, but _where you are_ . You are not here, but still in battle. You are still shaken. We'll get out of it, but I need you to focus. I need to know your head is safe. You have to learn to come back here when your mind decides to go back there. I know it's not easy, but it's a task I know you can tackle. "

“I don't know if I can do it. I don't sleep, I hardly eat. I waste hours of my life contemplating emptiness. I would ... I would just like to go back to living a normal life. "

The man looks at him. He does not mark anything in his notebook but, when he approaches, leaning his back to him confidentially, his eyes for the first time light up with something. Peter sees a kind of confidentiality in it, something that for a second makes him feel part of that world.

«I want to be honest with you: it will not be easy and it will never be totally over, but many people live with trauma or disease by forcing themselves to join them in life as if they were not an obstacle. You need to familiarize yourself with this hustle and bustle inside, find a balance and make it your own. This experience has changed you forever, but that doesn't mean you don't have to win over something you know will come back to haunt you. Peter, there is only one life. There is no point in wasting it on something you will never live again. You will not forget it, but you will remember it with detachment. This is my goal, and I would like you to fight to achieve it. You can do it?"

He does not know if he can do it, but he knows that the therapist is right: none of this will ever really abandon him, but there is only one existence, there is no life beyond death, so he needs to convince himself that with commitment will manage not to disappoint that man. Except he's paid to encourage him; closed the study door will always return to his normal life. So who does he owe that commitment to? To himself? Does he really deserve it, a different life?

"I can do it," he lies, but it's a step forward to even be convinced, and the therapist seems to know. "If the others made it ..."

“Don't compare yourself to others. If there is a common mistake that I see all my patients making, it is to dwell too much on terms of comparison. Everyone lives their experiences according to their way of being. There are those, among many, who do not choose and those who choose and repent. You are part of this second category. You could have taken a different path, where you were not called to protect others, but you remained here to be protected. You left to feel useful, and inside you know that you have not filled that void and you have not won any battles. It's not stupid to want to live a normal life, Peter. And now you can choose. I know it's hard to leave what you saw behind you, but this is war and even if you are no longer there, people continue to die. And you can't do anything about it. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, it's clear but ... how do I win this battle?"

The therapist sighs. Go back to lean on the chair and cross your fingers between them. “We'll find out in time, and we'll do what we can to let you win. By the way, »he stops. Looks at him. Seek the truth before he can even speak. "Do you still have that gun in your nightstand?"

Peter fizzes on the spot. He petrifies and feels, all on his shoulders, the weight of his lies. All those who, faced with questions like that, are forced to say to feel less cowardly. "No, no, I ... I got rid of it."

"Very well," the man nods, but a veil has lifted between them and Peter feels damned guilty. "See you next week, then."

Peter bites his lip again, and stands up wanting to get out of there as soon as possible, but this time he has something burning inside. Because that bullshit weighs more than you think, because lying to a therapist means failure. He takes one step forward and three steps back, every single time.

And that gun, now locked in the drawer, continues to look at it spellbound every night, as if freedom were contained within.

A pendulum that wobbles between his need for acceptance, his fear of rejection and the desire that he doesn't care that much about the rest.

"Are you going to resign? You haven't talked about it anymore. " Aunt May raises her glass full of water and, before taking a sip, glances at him sideways, as if she wanted - from the height of her experience that can be defined as parenting - to study it and understand it with just a glance.

Peter hides behind a mouthful of spaghetti and emerges shortly after with a shrug. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't want to look at her.

“No, I never went after that car problem. During the week I provide. "

"Peter, if you don't hurry, you'll end up falling back into it again," she scolds him, and he holds back an exasperated sigh. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and has lost his appetite. He ate just two mouthfuls, with fatigue weighing on his back and stomach. He always feels full, full, as if he had swallowed a whole banquet and could not digest it. Whenever food goes down the esophagus, he has a sense of vomit rising up his throat. He would never eat again.

"I will do it! Tomorrow I will mobilize to go there and close the bridges with these people. Do you think I doesn't want to do it? "

“I believe you haven't chosen yet, despite everything. Despite ... how they do to you. "

“Nobody did nothing yo me in any way, May. I chose to go and I was the one who put myself in the middle of this ... _antics?_ I don't want to be part of the army anymore, it's a stance that I won't change. Don't be afraid to see me leave again, because it won't happen », he tries to shut it there, and takes refuge in a sip of water that corrodes his carotid artery. Feels the gastric juices muttering inside the liver; the colon grumbling most of the time.

It is anxiety. He tries to calm her down with drops of Xanax which, at times, he decides not to take; others, on the other hand, drops more drops than it should, as it thinks things could change and improve.

He knows he shouldn't do it, because that's what they told him, but his head sometimes thinks on its own and he humors her. As if there were, inside his skull, another Peter who commands him and forces him to act in a certain way, because otherwise it would be wrong.

He knows he shouldn't listen to that second consciousness, but he does. He does this because he has no other hand to hold on to, although listening to himself is one of the biggest mistakes he can make.

“I'm not afraid to see you leave. I'm afraid I won't see you coming back. "

Aunt May is always so damn blunt, especially when it comes to feelings. She suffers and Peter knows it and even though he is back he continues to make her suffer and to throw worries, discomfort, nightmares at her. He is not the only one who has left something elsewhere; for Aunt May Peter is still in her room, and is a child who reads comics, who studies subjects as adults, who listens to rock music to unload his solitude on hard notes and who, behind exploding smiles, hides sadness not to be like the others.

Not much has changed, in some ways. He has never boasted great friendships and great experiences, but he's a man now. A man who forgot that child in a schoolyard on a rainy day and who is waiting for someone to pick him up.

A man who no longer knows what he wants from life and who, inside, is consumed like a candle that has been lit for too long, but who no longer heats anything.

"I'm back and I'm not leaving anymore," he tries again to close the conversation, moving the plate from in front of his eyes. Aunt May looks at him, opens her mouth but says nothing. He stitches it back up because he knows. He knows that Peter is in that moment of the day when he doesn't want to hear and see anyone, where that lunch won't heal anything and that, talking about what it was, only hurts more and doesn't help to forget.

"Promise me you'll go get deleted from the Register," she finally tells him, and bites her lip.

"Yes, yes. I will do it. I'll do it tomorrow morning, ”he replies hastily, and is getting irritated. He wants to change the subject, but there are no other topics. It is so empty that it has nothing to say, and then war is the only thing it can talk about. Of which _everyone_ can speak. He would like to shake it off but he can't. It is his curse.

"By the way, what happened with the car?"

«The belt is broken. The mechanic said if I kept driving I would break the engine. Luckily I ended up there and they fixed it for me. " He is happy to have changed the subject, even if it is not who knows what.

Aunt May snorts. “ _She_ 's too old. If we had the chance I would buy another one, but for now let's make it go well. "

"It was Uncle Ben's," he reminds her, and she lowers her eyes for a second uncomfortably.

"I know. And, even if I bought a new one, I would keep this as a souvenir. "

"I didn't mean you don't care," he justifies himself, and he knows he's doing it more for himself than for her - smiling, because she already understood.

“No, I know what you meant. So how long did it take to fix it? "

“Almost three hours, but he had to take apart I don't know what to do. He also asked me a little, for the time it took us and ... »he begins, and then stops. His mind goes back to that day, which he had almost forgotten in the maze of other memories and, like a flash, that hot day falls upon him.

"And?" May urges him, tilting her head, curious.

“A bizarre thing has happened. The mechanic's son ... you know, he works with him and, well, we talked normally. Questions about the car, about the damage and its severity and he ... he is deaf and dumb but I never imagined it. He spoke fluently and seemed to understand me perfectly. I was a little off guard when I found out. "

“Oh, what a singular thing. Maybe he became there? "

Peter shrugs again, but it's a possibility. He does not know why it came to his mind and why he is telling it, but it is almost relaxing to let oneself go to such a singular tale that it strays so much from the pains of the soul.

“I guess so. And then I think he can read lips with a precision that amazed me. "

"Did you tell him that you too can use sign language?" She asks, with a touch of pride.

Peter allows himself a chuckle. "I got to communicate with him that way when, thinking I didn't know him, he called me an idiot by gesturing to his father."

"Oh, it must have been a great satisfaction!" Laughs May.

Peter rolls his eyes and thinks about that scene, then snorts in amusement. "I admit it was a bit."

He feels less pressured after that conversation that smacks of normality. He sticks his fork into the plate of spaghetti and forces himself to eat some, as if the pain inside isn't so strong it even fills his stomach. He wishes his days were always like this. _Normal._

He would like time, little by little, to remind him of what it is like to live still amazed by everything, without finding evil in everything.

He would like to be like that deaf-mute boy he met by chance - and whom he may never see again, but who taught him that, beyond the obstacle, there is a _chance_ he cannot ignore.

Tomorrow he wants to change things, but today he is still at war.

_**To Be Continued...** _


	3. Chapter III. Weaves

**Chapter III. Waves**

Spark. Like the light of a single star that appears in the sky, on a dark night, and has the power to capture all the attention of the world. He holds it in his hands, that gun, lying on the bed with one arm behind his neck to support the weight of his thoughts, legs crossed, no blanket to cover his body dressed only in a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.

He holds it high, the weapon, and looks at it. He turns it in his hands like a relic, something that fascinates, with the magazine inserted and one finger still far from the trigger. It's not tonight, and Peter hopes he never will be, but he can't get rid of it, and he looks at it. It calls him, asks him to be used, pressed against his temple, because that is the only way to let go of the nightmares and sleep without dreaming anymore; without living with the guilt thrown around the soul and heart, and the head. And to his world, which he has not yet returned to.

It does the same, same thing every night. He lays down on the bed at an indecent time, takes his pills and never sleeps. He stares at the bedside table, opens it and takes the gun in his fingers. He plays with it, observes it and thinks, imagines, remembers. He doesn't want to, but he does.

And he is back in that tent, with his mind, trying to isolate the silent sounds of the outside and the snoring of the companions around him, more fortunate in falling asleep. He can't read, the lights have been turned off early, because yes, he should be sleeping, tomorrow is an awakening and he doesn't have a shred of sleep; like yesterday, like the day before yesterday and the day before. A handful of hours closes his eyes but are not enough to take him far away.

Just wondering _why?_ Why is he there and what his brain told him. Harley has been in the hospital on campus for two days and no one tells him anything about her health. He was shot in the leg twice. He will probably never walk again. Of course, he was luckier than Jason, who was shot in the head from a mountain. A precise, fearless sniper who struck to kill and did it.

Jason's pierced head will remember her forever. Pieces of brain pulped on the ground, on a pool of dark blood. He didn't believe that a human being could lose that much blood - so fast, anyway. He won't easily forget his eyes wide open against that scorching sun that almost burned them alive. He won't forget the heart that started pounding relentlessly, and he almost believed it might come out of his rib cage.

And that evening too he had looked at the gun with the same eager fascination with which he would have leafed through a scientific journal or a book on arithmetic.

And he knows it's wrong. Wrong about him, Aunt May's and he's a fucking coward. Because dying is cowardly, but wanting it and doing nothing to make it come true is even more crap.

Because death scares him more than anything else in the world, his own and that of others. Because until you live _that way you_ don't have the faintest idea what it really is. Because in war death is around the corner waiting to cut you in two with its scythe, but Peter doesn't want to meet her. Even if, inside, he knows he no longer has a reason to live. Though he knows it's not worth pretending he's okay when he's rotting inside like he's happening to him.

He wipes his wet eyes and puts the weapon back on the nightstand. He closes it with a dull thud and sits down on the mattress. He hugs his legs to his chest, hides his face between his knees and sadly sighs bitterly.

It is bad. He does not recover from that melancholy, which does not pass and does not leave him alone. He never stopped fighting, but that battle inside is already lost from the start. He's trying hard, but he's not doing it for him, but for the others, for Aunt May, for the memory of Uncle Ben and for his friends, who pretend he never left every time they see him, and talk more. He's grateful to them, but to see them move forward in life - MJ getting married, Ned getting the job he dreamed of - hurts him. Because they have chosen to stay, to create a stable future, to live a quiet life, the one that Peter thought was not enough and that he now craves more than anything else.

He has nothing left to hold on to and doesn't know how to tell Aunt May that he doesn't really want to leave the gun. He wants to stay, leave again and leave the difficult choice of whether he can live or die to someone else.

Because he is a coward and does not know how to choose.

When he wakes up that morning, his hands are numb and sweaty. Summer is coming and Queens always seem hotter than anywhere else. Hell, and after all Peter imagines it that way, hell. He doesn't want to get up, but he has to because the first rule of depression is to try not to sit still and mull over the past and the pain. The bed is comfortable, there is nothing to fear enclosed in that mattress, but the world has to be faced, even for the little things like shopping or paying bills. Small gestures that he _must_ let become routine, something to get used to and on which to shift attention.

Plus, he promised Aunt May that he's going to resign today, and even if he doesn't want to, he has to. It's not just for her, but for him too. It has to close with that world, now or never. Otherwise it will end up really falling into it.

He wrote Harley a letter yesterday, and although he doesn't have the courage to send it to him, he decided he will anyway. He told him about his intentions, that he too wants to go back to living without the weight of the war on his shoulders. He befriended that boy, he likes him and those few pleasant memories he created at the camp are tied to him. He does not want to close ties with him, although he is convinced that things have now changed too much for both of them and that that intent to cultivate a friendship is not possible.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom and throws himself in the shower. Today is one of those days where it doesn't weigh on him, so let the water run all over his body and try to relax. Depression goes in moments; sometimes he manages to manage it, sometimes it annihilates him, and when he manages not to be crushed, he almost has the feeling of having overcome her, only that it then returns, in the less unthinkable moments. Sometimes by accident, sometimes as soon as I wake up, sometimes it lasts days, sometimes just a minute. He hates feeling so unbalanced with his emotions, because he thinks he doesn't know himself the way he used to.

He sighs at that thought, but has every intention of not ruining anything. So he dresses, puts on a black T-shirt and a pair of blue cargo pants. He arranges his hair as best he can, convinced that it is not growing fast and, as soon as he puts on his boots, he takes the car keys and heads for the barracks.

He is back on that deserted street, where a few days ago _Lady Cocca_ abandoned him and turned her back on him. The asphalt feels even warmer, with the high midday sun and, more determined than ever to maintain a decent mood, he puts on some music. An old _Johnny Cash_ song , with a country rhythm, hits him and almost relaxes him. It is almost ironic that, on such a provincial street, there is a similar soundtrack.

The sides of the roadway are deserted and devoid of vegetation. Every now and then a dead tree stands out, whose branches point towards the sky and, the arid earth, has the color of sand. Roll down the windows, since there is no air conditioning on that old _Volvo_ and, with a half smile, keep the rhythm of the song by tapping a hand on the exterior of the car.

Then he sees it; the workshop that saved his life days ago. There is the gas station in full swing, with three cars waiting to refuel. The bar and its windows reflect the sun and almost blind him, but he can see, from a distance, the red shape of a letterbox.

So he puts the arrow, and turns left. He'll drop by the cafe to get something, send the letter and give a quick greeting to the mechanic and his son, the deaf-mute one who called him an idiot. One of those absurd experiences that Peter will not easily forget, but which he holds on to his soul, as it has nothing to do with war. And that's what his therapist told him.

“Make more memories here, Peter. Leave behind those who no longer belong to you. " It is not easy, but it will do so.

Park not too far from the bar and, when it goes down, the sun hits it. It is really too hot and even though he spent the last summer in Afghanistan and discovered for himself what it means to literally boil, he has never endured that climate and has always preferred the cold.

He takes the letter from the glove compartment and, hesitating, approaches the mailbox. He mulls over what to do, because he's not really convinced that this will help him close the bridges, but he genuinely wants to know how Harley is doing and whether, despite everything, he's also fighting to mentally get home.

He posts it and knows that now he will have to wait for an answer; provided that this will come.

"Soldier!"

It's the mechanic's voice, the one calling him. He would recognize it among a thousand, as it has a strong New York accent. He turns to the right and, in front of him, the man smiles as he wipes his hands with a habitual gesture on a cloth more worn than the one before.

He finds himself responding to that smile and, one foot in front of the other, reaches him. That shows him his elbow, he squeezes it as if it were his hand. Squeezing that one would dirty hers.

“Mr. Stark. I see that business is going on! The work has increased », he observes, looking inside the workshop and also sees Tony, all concentrated on filling an old _850 special_ with oil _._ One of the few machines that Peter could recognize among a thousand. It is bottle green, the body is a little worn and has lost paint in various places. Definitely a very badly treated period piece.

«Work comes and goes. Today we are quite full, so if you have some work to do you should come back another time », the man jokes and Peter allows himself a laugh.

"No, luckily for me I haven't broken anything else."

"So, how come around here? Didn't you say you live far from here? "

“Yes, but I'm going to resign. Therefore he will no longer be able to call me a soldier, from now on. "

That squares him from head to toe. “The clothing gives me the impression that you are still up to your neck in it. Professional deformation?"

“A wardrobe that needs updating, I'm afraid. For now I only have these clothes. I will definitely have to fix it », he replies, taking up the provocation, although he knows he has told half the truth. The man is right: he has not fully taken into account that even such a thing as a habit related to clothes has to do with his psychology. He does it unconsciously, he prepares for war even when he doesn't have to face it. Tomorrow he will go buy some new clothes and get rid of them. If he has to.

“However, it amazes me to see you here. Tony and I just mentioned you half an hour ago. "

"Yes, and why?" He asks curiously, casting a new glance at the son of man, who is now looking at him, holding a funnel and a can of oil. Tony lifts his chin in health and he reciprocates.

"We were wondering why a soldier knows sign language," replies Mr. Stark and throws him off for a moment. Meanwhile, Tony has approached him, has joined his father and that, quickly, updates him on the conversation using sign language. He nods, responds with " _As usual, you're a worse mother-in-law than Mom,_ " and Peter laughs.

“Nothing particularly complex, actually. Among the soldiers there are _gestural signals_ and are used to communicate when we move in a group and the leader must give indications. Stop, advanced and generic signals. They are similar to the ones used by the deaf and ... well, many of my peers knew sign language, so we started a group to learn it. It was ... instructive and it helped us to communicate with each other when we weren't allowed to talk. "

“A way to break the rules, then. A good parachute, soldier! »Says Mr. Stark and Tony nudges him. Peter doesn't understand if it's an accomplice gesture or if he's taking it back for the bad joke.

"In a sense. The rules at the camp are strict, we go to sleep early and we are not allowed to talk to each other. That was the only way and, yes, a good _paraculate_ . "

"Our ... Peter is good, right?" And now you resign. What will happen to your life, away from the gun? "

Peter shrugs and realizes for himself that he has put on a wistful smile. That's a good question. What will become of his life? He studied at MIT and is a monster in science subjects. He continued to study even in his spare moments on the field, only because he is unable to divide himself from those disciplines he loves so much.

Do you want to be a scientist? Maybe yes, but he feels like a child with ambitions but who still doesn't know what to do with his life. He just has to find a way to shift focus to his new goals and forget what it was.

And get out of that fucking depression that doesn't want to leave him alone.

"I'll try to invent something, first I have to resign and rearrange my ideas."

“Dad is looking for an assistant. Since I learned the trade, he no longer has anyone to enslave. You'd be a good candidate, ”Tony jokes, and he almost seems to have sensed his discomfort. Indeed, his request for help but Peter never addressed them directly. It is more generic, more _global_ . Aimed at everyone, as long as they help him.

He raises his eyebrows, taken aback. He knows he's joking, but it hits him anyway.

"Oh, you've learned the trade but you're not even better than me, Tony!"

“Sure, who solved the last mess you made? You would really need a babysitter, ”replies the son and the one slaps him on the shoulder; then someone calls him and, apologizing, walks away, leaving them alone.

"I don't know a damn thing about mechanics," says Peter, and even though he knows he's answering a joke, it comes naturally to him to say so. Tony shrugs.

«You learn in the field. As for sign language, ”he replies, and perhaps he wasn't joking at all when he made that proposal. "Think about it. Yesterday he talked about getting someone to help him. I am no longer behind him, alone. " He laughs.

" _Even if you said I'm an idiot, do you trust me?"_ asks Peter, in sign language; a veiled smile that is almost emptied of the melancholy that always pervades it.

Tony raises his hands. “ _Maybe I can change my mind. Do you have a coffee and let's talk about it_ ? "

He doesn't know why, but he accepts. As if, in that moment, he had found a foothold to hold on to.

But not even today he will go to the barracks to leave the weapon, and it is a weight that crushes his existence.

_**To Be Continued...** _


End file.
